
ClassTillil 
Book._£ii2il^ 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



SEA LANES 



BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
MAN-O'-WAR RHYMES, $1.50 



SEA LANES 

AND OTHER POEMS 

BURT FRANKLIN JENNESS 




THE CORNHILL PUBLISHING COMPANY 

BOSTON 






t7S3(- 



Copyright 1921 

by 

The Cornhill Publishing Company 

All Rights Reserved 



m 27 1922 
©CI.A853683 



TO MOTHER 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Are due to the Saturday Evening Post, the New 
York Times, the Top Notch Magazine, Life, the 
Birmingham, Ala., Age Herald, and Our Navy 
for permission to reprint many of the poems 
that appear herein. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Sea Lanes 3 

The World of Ships 5 

The Sea Tramp 6 

Ebb Tides 8 

The Derelict 10 

The Seaman's Hour 12 

The Flotilla 14 

The Sea Dog 16 

Blue Water 18 

The Sportsman 19 

The Business of Sailing 21 

The Surfman 23 

The Tryst 25 

The "Callao Painter" 27 

The All-Round Man 29 

Driftwood 30 

Up Anchor 32 

Looking Seaward 34 

Sea Longings 36 

The Summer Storm 37 

Sea Musing 39 

A Fog at Sea 40 

South of Fifty-Three 42 

Lost at Sea 43 

Kindred Ships 45 

Shipmates 46 

[vii] 



$ SEA LANES $ 



PAGE 



The Old Scuttle-Butt 48 

Shakin' Down 49 

Anchor Watches 51 

BUMBOATS 53 

Heroes 56 

The Mystery 57 

United States Marine Corps 59 

The Holystoner 60 

The Meal Pennant 62 

"Jimmy Legs" 64 

Pay Day 66 

Swimmin' Call 68 

"Lay Aft" 70 

"Chips" 72 

The Sea Lawyer 74 

"Mail, Ho!" 75 

The Old Ditty Box 77 

A Ballad of the Old Navy 79 

Red Lead 81 

The Ace 83 

The Galley 84 

The Ship's Cook 86 

Jack o' the Dust 88 

The Bluejacket 90 



viii] 



SEA LANES 



SEA LANES 



SEA LANES 

There's a road that winds across the world, 

With never a home to left or right; 
Where never a friendly smoke has curled 

Above a vagrant's fire at night, 
And never the warmth of a gypsy camp. 

With shelter, and cup to quench the thirst; 
Where never a man should choose to tramp 

But breaks his fetters of durance first. 

The cross-roads lead to reach and rack; 

The by-paths end on many a shore, 
And yet there's never a rut or track 

To tell who tramped the road before. 

With never a milestone on the way, 

Or friendly tavern to greet the sight; 
With only the sun to guide by day. 

And a single star, perhaps, at night. 
It stretches away to meet the sky, 

This road that never ends at all. 
And up where the meteors blaze and die 

It catches the star dust when they fall. 

[3] 



$ SEA LANES 



Beside this road, with never a breach, 

Are waving fields of tropic blue, 
And stretching as far as the eye can reach 

The flowering crests of emerald hue, 
With cool dark furrows that lie between, 

And like vast fields of cotton bloom 
On slender stalks of watery green, 

The tossing combers blown with spume. 

The lore of the road is free to all, 

For nature's book is there to read; 
But woe to him that hears the call 

And takes the road — but does not heed- 
For here is a wild and luring trail 

Leading away from the haunts of men; 
Out to the home of the gull and the whale. 

And never leading back again. 



[4j 



$ SEA LANES $ 



THE WORLD OF SHIPS 

I want to go back to the world of ships ; 
To the kicking seas where the salt sleet whips; 
Where the flying spray will cling and freeze, 
And a ten-inch stick will snap in the breeze; 
Where a dog's a dog, and a man's a Jack, 
Or a man's a cur if his deeds are black. 
Just send me back to the world of ships, 
Where a skipper knows his men. 

I shipped for a cabin boy at ten. 
My lot was cast with hairy men; 
Grizzled and rough, but true as steel. 
Wicked as Sin, but they were real, 
The God they knew was the God of the sea. 
And a creed like theirs will do for me. 
So send me back to the world of ships, 
For I'll know my billet then. 

Send me aloft at brail and clew. 
Lash me there 'tween blue and blue; 
Send me below where the black gang heaves, 
Where the pistons spit, and the crank-shaft grieves; 
Send me on deck with bucket and swab ; 
Name the packet, and pick my job. 
But send me back to the world of ships — 
And I'll be happy again. 



$ SEA LANES $ 



THE SEA TRAMP 

A black hull is lifted on the lee; 

She dips — and a strange tramp has passed; 

A stately vagabond of the sea, 

With lines unbeautiful, and bare of mast; 

A ragamuffin on the road of ships ; 

A wanderer that's bidden to and fro, 

To fetch and carry wares as fortune flips 

The coin of trade, and tells her where to go. 

Oft met at every cross-road of the sea, 

And docked in all the ports of all the world; 

A hobo, though the tramp ship be. 

She holds respect of every flag unfurled. 

Though dark of hull, unkempt, and stern and cold; 

The barnacles of ages on her plates; 

The dust from many countries in her hold, 

And men of every nation for her mates, 

Yet she may hail to-day from some far place, 

And weather out the fiercest gale at sea, 

To bring my lady perfume or fine lace. 

Or serve her with the choicest brand of tea. 

Her musty holds are redolent with scents 

Of produce from her many ports of call ; 

Her being speaks of far off continents; 

And an air of romance permeates it all. 

What tales of daring might she not tell; 

What tragedies of life before the mast; 

[6] 



$ SEA LANES $ 

How far the wanderlust might cast its spell — 
Could she but speak the truth of cruises past! 
Of duty vigils at the pumps at night; 
Of mutiny nipped while yet in bud ; 
Of gaming crews in brawl by lantern hght — 
And now and then a murder in cold blood. 
To-day she unloads coffee from Brazil ; 
Tomorrow takes on wheat for Liverpool; 
Free-lancing 'round the globe at someone's will — 
A tried and faithful ocean-going fool. 
For twenty, thirty, fifty years, or more, 
Though fouled by drift and weed of many seas, 
She tips the horn of plenty at our door — 
That those who scorn the tramp may live at ease. 



[7 



$ 



SEA LANES $ 



EBB TIDES 

As some well ordered life 
Might pass its closing years 
Above the seas of strife, 
And ebbs and floods of tears, 
The long, white, naked beaches, 
Heat radiant, lie sunning. 
While down their shining reaches 
The listless ebb is running. 

They bask with hot winds blowing 

Their sands from crest to crest. 

Until the flood tide flowing 

Disturbs them at their rest. 

The myriad bits of life. 

That make their wastes less drear, 

Are like the good deeds rife 

In a desolate career. 

The sea-urchins which bide 

Their brief existence there; 

The bi-valves, gaping wide 

To take the balmy air; 

The sand crab's patterned scrawl; 

Are soon effaced by seas. 

As pass beyond recall 

Life's transient pleasantries. 

[8] 



SEA LANES $ 



The gusts of hot sand scurrying 
On breezes soft and light, 
Are Uke vague fancies hurrying 
To reach ambition's height. 
The drift the flood tides brought 
Is on the sands outHned, 
As derehcts of thought 
Are strewn upon the mind. 
The bits of wreckage smoothed 
By touch of wind and wave, 
Like fits of passion soothed 
By words of counsel grave. 
The strands of kelp, uprooted, 
Are cast inland to dry. 
Like fond hopes torn and looted 
And left behind to die. 



19J 



$ SEA LANES $ 



THE DERELICT 

I tramp the golden roads of Here and There, 
I'm numbered with the foot-loose and the free. 
I court the life the gentler wouldn't dare. 
I'm everything the nobler scorn to be. 
I'm all the younger son should not have been, 
The worst that hopeful parents used to fear. 
I'm marked up with the ones that never win. 
And running true to form with my career. 
I'm one that brings the whisper in the pew, 
The prayer for wayward ones upon the street, 
The kind that barren missions beckon to, 
And shame them down the saw-dust trail retreat. 
The kind the goodly parson at the church 
Warns his youthful congregation not to be; 
That leaves his widowed mother in the lurch — 
Fm the wilder son, who ran away to sea. 

I'm elected to the Worthless Sailormen— 
The world can tell you just what I will do — 
Get drunk and ship; get paid, and ship again. 
So I do all that I'm expected to. 
I list a bit t' starb'ard when I walk. 
My pegs are not as straight as years ago. 
And I shift my quid to leeward when I talk. 
But I take my trick and stand it, heel and toe. 
fioi 



$ 



SEA LANES $ 



Fin a relic of the Has Been, and the Was; 
A remnant of the things that seemed to be; 
A sorry jargon of effect and cause, 
And I earn my daily bread upon the sea. 
I chase the rainbows of the painted town; 
I dicker with the fates, and many men; 
I've had my fun, and paid the money down, 
From Brest to Singapore and back again. 
Fve seen the sun go down on every sea, 
Fm an advocate of sport for love of sport. 
Fm a loafer with the Stevies on the quay, 
Or Fll ship on any craft for any port. 



u] 



$ SEA LANES $ 



THE SEAMAN'S HOUR 

When the day's trick is over and the running Hghts 

are Ht, 
And the rigging fore and aft is trim and tight; 
When the evening watch is posted and the gear is 

weather fit, 
And the crew has gathered forward for the night, 
And the smoking lamp is burning and the hammocks 

there are swinging — 
Then a man may know his shipmates as they are; 
For the fellowship grows mellow with the songs the 

gang is singing, 
And the sailorman gets out his old guitar. 

When the blue smoke is curling to the girders over- 
head, 
And the berth-deck is merry with the din 
Of the laughter, song and story, ere the bugle blows 

for bed — 
Then the strains from the old guitar begin. 
And you hear the pine trees whisper, out beneath 

the stars alone, 
Or the notes from famous concert halls afar. 
Till he thrums and sets a-quiver every heart-string 

with a tone — 
When a shipmate plays upon his old guitar. 

112] 



$ SEA LANES $ 

As he sits on his ditty box and smokes his cigarette 

He will strike the chords that somehow set you wild; 

For they conjure up the faces and the scenes you 
can't forget 

Till the fragments of the world are 'round you piled; 

Streets and restaurants and theatres; every rendez- 
vous of town, 

And the glamour of the life you left ashore. 

He can lift you from the depths of thought or send 
you crashing down; 

He can bring you hopes you never dreamed before; 

He can make you forget that you ever learned to hate, 

That you ever had a hurt to reconcile — 

And you swing your hammock, happy, up along-side 

your mate — 
When you've listened to his old guitar awhile, 
And you take the road to slumber through the gates 

of memory, 
As you watch, out through the port, some reeling 

star; 
And you hear the distant beating of a swiftly running 

sea. 
Like the music of a far away guitar. 



[13] 



$ SEA LANES ^ 



THE FLOTILLA 

Saucy pennants take the breeze; 
The screech of sirens spHts the air; 
Aerials hum like swarming bees, 
While on deck the bugles blare. 
Heard above the busy din, 
The rumbUng winches gaining speed 
Drag the dripping anchors in. 
Fouled with mud and bottom weed. 

Long, lean ships creep slowly out. 
Jockeying with the channel tide. 
Swinging their sleek hulls about 
Till Hke partners, side by side. 
In and out they seem to wind, 
Circhng, cutting in to fill, 
Taking distances assigned. 
Like some wonderful quadrille. 

Smoke clouds trail like giant quills; 
Sunset rays gild rail and spar 
As dimly past the shadowed hills 
The low ships wind across the bar. 
A wavering hue with specks of hght; 
An inky smoke screen blown to lee; 
A column bulking in the night — 
And our destroyers are at sea. 

114] 



$ SEA LANES $ 

Bearing down, against the sky ; 
Bolting through the soHd blue; 
Bridging wave-crests mountain high; 
Splitting giant seas in two. 
Quaking when the head seas pound, 
Weather cloth and bridge a-foam; 
Glad of any holding ground ; 
Calling any port a home. 

Slipping through a rugged reach; 
Feeling over shoals of glass ; 
Flirting with a strip of beach; 
Scouting up the nearest pass. 
Dropping into port at night, 
Underway before the dawn. 
Graceful as a gull in flight, 
Swifter than a startled fawn. 

Out-posts of the mighty fleet; 
Fingers of the battle craft; 
Messengers of willing feet 
In the world of fore and aft. 
Convoy, freight, dispatch or mail; 
Up to windward, down to lee, 
The ocean hounds are on the trail 
When the "Long Green" goes to sea. 



[15] 



$ SEA LANES J 



THE SEA DOG 

I wandered up and down the quay to-day, 
And yesterday, and many days before. 
In and out, aboard the ships I've found my way, 
And tramped the sun-baked decks till I'm foot sore. 
The shipping folks are mostly strange and queer, 
And yet, sometimes an old famiUar face 
Will greet me from the decks or on the pier. 
And then I know I'm in a friendly place. 

I like to watch the freighters come and go; 
The lazy tramps go easing down the bay; 
The laden schooners straining at their tow. 
And shaking out their canvas on the way. 
I'm happy when the cargoes from the East 
Fill the air with scent of spices and of fruit. 
For the wealth of tree and jungle, bird and beast, 
On the ships may tell the story of their route. 

I dream of every port they touched or passed. 
And I feel the tropic breezes blow once more. 
I can tell just where they reefed or stepped a mast. 
Or coasted by the hghts along the shore. 
I hke to feel that I'm a part of it; 
This great big open business of the sea, 
That here's a place in life for which I'm fit; 
That somewhere there's a ship that's needing me. 

[161 



J SEA LANES $ 

And so I wander up and down the pier, 
And squat with sweating stevedores at noon. 
Sometimes they'll share with me their grub and beer, 
And talk old times outside the dock saloon. 
Sometimes I'll board a tramp that's loading freight, 
The biggest and the best that I can find, 
And I'll tell a sailor's story to the mate — 
And sometimes, but not often, he'll be kind. 

Then again I'll meet a mate I used to know. 
And he'll offer his tobaccy , and his hand ; 
And then he'll shake again, and off he'll go — 
Talking low about the lucky dog on land. 
But I don't mind their curses and their chaff; 
Their sneering at the story I have told — 
There's a harder blow that strikes home like a gaff. 
For when I try to ship they say: "Too old." 



17 



$ SEA LANES $ 



BLUE WATER 

I'm sick of the world that men have made; 
Their baubles of fashion ; their color and glare. 
I'm sick of their tawdry street parade; 
Their crowded shops, and the stifling air; 
Their reeking slums, and the life at night; 
The dust of their cities is choking me; 
I'm sick of deceit, and the sham in their fight — 
And I'm going back to the open sea. 

Just give me a ship with a happy crew. 

And deep blue water beneath her keel; 

Her bilges tight, and her compass true; 

A trusty mate to mind the wheel — 

And winds may blow till the lee rail dips! 

A God made world is the world for me ; 

Untrammelled, and peopled by men of the ships - 

So I'm going back to the open sea. 



118. 



$ SEA LANES $ 



THE SPORTSMAN 

He who knows the keen dehght 

Which campin'-out time brings, 
Who loves the crackhng fire at night; 

The song the kettle sings; 
Who's sipped the nectar from a pot 

Of fragrant coffee steaming; 
Or tentward wafted to his cot, 

To wake him from his dreaming, 
The smell of bacon in the pan, 

Or flap-jacks in the turning; 
Who yearns to be an out-door man — 

And satisfies his yearning; 
A sportsman who can rough it right. 

And though his bones are aching, 
Can sleep beneath the stars at night, 

And glory in the waking— 
That man has lived to play a game 

All other games are worth;— 
He has a better right to claim 

His heritage of earth. 

He who knows the great out-doors 

Of desert, woods or shore, 
Who knows the wealth of nature's stores; 

Who knows her lure, and lore; 

[19] 



$ SEA LANES $ 

Who's pitched his tent and sought his rest 

In God's great camping place; 
Who's scaled the peaks, or plunged to breast 

The stream where torrents race ; 
Who's followed sledge and mushed the trail 

Behind the yelping pack; 
Who's clung aloft to reef a sail, 

Or trailed the panther's track; 
Who's stood a watch on reeling bridge. 

Or braved the mesa's heat; 
Who's tramped the woods and climbed the ridge, 

And packed his kill of meat — 
That man is every inch a man, 

His feet have felt the sod ; 
He's lived where only such men can — 

A little nearer God. 



[20] 



$ SEA LANES $ 



THE BUSINESS OF SAILING 

When nights are cold and dark, and seas are pounding 
loud as thunder; 

The trades are shrieking over, and the bow is plung- 
ing under; 

The man who's made his business the business of the 
sea 

Must stand to it behind the wheel — the devil take 
the lee — 

When stiff with sleet his oil-skins rasp and crackle 

as he sways, 
And the icy rain that pelts his lashes freezes while 

it stays — 
'Tis then he'll curse the saihng business up and down 

the main. 
And dub himself the prince of fools to take a ship 

again. 

When a man has quit the saihng of the seas, and 

harbored snug 
Among the hills, with trees so thick you couldn't 

hoist a lug; 
When the line of his horizon shuts the ocean out of 

view, 
And his course is straight and narrow, and his mates 

are mighty few ; 

[21] 



^ SEA LANES $ 

He'll chafe against the docking lines, and feel them 

drawing tight, 
For his soul is straining seaward, and his heart is 

in the bight — 
There is dearth of real contentment in that world of 

hills and trees, 
For the man who made a business once of sailing on 

the seas. 



[22] 



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SEA LANES $ 



THE SURFMAN 

The surfman takes his dreary post 
To bide the night, while storm seas roar 
And charge against a rocky coast — 
Till fury spent, they flood the shore. 
He knows the signs of peril rife 
On such a sea — and ere the dread 
North Eastern gale has lived its life, 
He'll count its toll of shipwrecked dead. 

His lantern bright and his rockets ready. 
He keeps his vigil the wild night through; 
His step is firm and his hand is steady. 
Though ghastly work is his to do. 
Beneath his low sou'wester's brim 
He sweeps the sea with anxious eye. 
And scans the dark for signals grim; 
A blazing rocket against the sky; 

A burning mast or a beacon Hght. 
His ear is bent for a siren's shriek, 
And through the void of sea and night, 
He barkens for a ship to speak. 
His being shrinks from the cold without, 
But stout must be the heart within — 
For swift is the foe that he would rout, 
And fierce the battle that he must win. 

[23] 



$ SEA LANES $ 

His oilskins shed the beating storm, 
But httle he knows of mirth and song. 
With coursing blood to keep him warm — 
But none to cheer — he swings along 
And dreams, perhaps, of the revelry 
And scenes afar from his lonely strand — 
But wakes to the voice of an angry sea, 
And his own foot-steps in the heavy sand. 



[24] 



SEA LANES $ 



THE TRYST 

The Light: 

keeper, trim my lanterns well; 

My crystal faces polish bright. 
How goes the watch, no one can tell, 

When seamen fail to lift my light. 
The night is dark ; the storm's forecast 

I see in turbulent unrest 
Of oily swells, and rising fast. 

The storm seas beating at my breast. 
keeper, leave no work undone; 

I must not fail to Ught the way. 
'Tis long before another sun — 

And who can tell what brings the day? 
The Ocean Mail is due to-night; 

The storm speeds on behind the mist; 
Our pact is sealed, and with my light 

I must not fail to keep the tryst. 



The Ship: 

O Captain, make your vigil true; 

My cruising lights keep burning bright, 
The Shoal Light knows that we are due, 

And I've a tryst with him to-night. 
The storm is pounding us a-beam; 

[251 



$ SEA LANES $ 

My plates are strained with every list ; 
The seas are testing every seam; 

My shaft is wrenched with every twist. 
Captain, keep your lookouts keen, 

And batten down my hatches tight. 
The sea wolves follow, lank, and lean — 

We must not miss the beacon light. 
The keeper watches in the tower ; 

The storm has beaten down the mist; 
The Shoal Light knows it is my hour— 

I must not fail to keep the tryst. 



[26] 



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THE "CALLAO PAINTER" 

Silent artist of the sea; 

Tell us why this mystery; 

Never brush or palette near, 

When your canvasses appear, 

Yet no novice daub or smirk 

Is your clever handiwork. 

Through the darkened leagues we know 

Is your deep sea studio, 

But your silent, locked estate 

Science cannot penetrate. 

You, Aladdin's power hold. 

Or, the Midas touch of gold, 

When from utter depths you steal, 

And with magic wand, a keel 

Stroke, and Lo! a leaden hue; 

Callao Painter, who are you? 

Callao Painter, tell us, pray. 

From whence comes your pigment gray.^ 

Plant or fish, or mineral salt 

Acting on the cruiser's vault; 

Juice of kelp or ink of squid, 

Or is your great secret hid 

In the soft aureUa's cells? 

Shall we say the grantia's pores 

Can secrete that paint of yours? 

[27] 



$ SEA LANES $ 

Or the hydroid and his kin, 

Do they excrete lead or tin? 

Is your art by science taught, 

Is your work by nature wrought, 

Or are you a water witch? 

Are you myth or mortal — which? 

Mystery of old Peru, 

Callao Painter, what are you? 



'281 



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THE ALL-ROUND MAN 

Give me the man who'll take a chance 

When other men would quit; 
Who'll break the bonds of circumstance 

And win out by his grit; 
Who dares to leave the beaten track, 

Or stay against his will; 
Give me the man who has the knack 

Of being versatile. 
Give me the man who's at his ease 

A-field, with gun and dogs; 
Yet who can grace the realm of teas, 

Or don his evening togs 
And play a role — at opera, dance. 

Reception, or the club — 
Par Excellence among gallants; 

A man who's not a dub 
At golf or bridge; who lilies to dwell 

Within the world of books; 
Knows wine and women, not too well. 

And loves the song of brooks. 
Of all the men who tramp the earth 

In life's great caravan; 
Of high or low or gentle birth. 

Give me the all-round man. 

[29] 



SEA LANES $ 



DRIFTWOOD 

I watched a piece of driftwood on the tide, 

A thing deserving but a passing glance, 

Yet idly on the waves I saw it ride 

At the mercy of the sea; a thing of chance. 

Until the breakers cast it at my feet, 

And as it lay there I soliloquized: 

Was such a tragic end, a just defeat, 

Or had it been a thing which men had prized? 

Perhaps a timber in a mighty craft; 
A rudder-head, a broken spar, a mast; 
The wreckage from an over laden raft; 
Or somewhere in the dim forgotten past, 
A giant pillar standing in the flood. 
Where human traffic roared above the tide; 
Or a stalwart pile up-ended in the mud. 
Beneath a dock where trains of commerce plied. 

Grown gray with barnacles and pearly shells; 
Replete with ocean's chambered mysteries; 
The thing was bearded with the drift that tells 
Of vagabonding in many seas. 
But had it mutely played a vital part 
In schemes of men, in days beyond recall, 
And though inanimate, had it a heart, 
Or was it only driftwood — after all? 

[30] 



$ SEA LANES $ 

A sterner object drifted thi'ough the spray, 
Riding heavy, hke a ship in storm. 
And as the thing came nearer in the bay 
It took on semblance of the human form. 
Across the billows, lying prostrate; 
Rising slowly on a foamy crest; 
Sinking in a trough with leaden weight, 
Until upon the sands it lay at rest. 

The guards attended that which once was man, 

And strove to bring anew the breath of life. 

And as they did their work I tried to scan 

His face for lines of pleasure or of strife ; 

To fathom his life secret there in death; 

To learn the fatal road by which he came ; 

If cowardice or valor checked his breath. 

And where and how and why he played the game. 

But only staring eyes looked up at mine, 
And only swollen lips which could not tell. 
And on his stolid face was not a line 
To say if life with him went ill or well. 
And as they raised and carried him away 
I wondered — did his hand offend a brother ; 
Was his life success or failure, sad or gay; 
Or was he only driftwood — like the other? 



[31] 



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UP ANCHOR 

There is romance in a sailing; there's adventure on 

the sea, 
For the shpping of a hawser sets the careless seamen 

free, 
And a world fades out behind them and another 

looms ahead 
Every time a screw is churning or a mainsail's spread ; 
Trysts and promises are broken, fame and fortune 

cast away; 
Tears may fall upon the harbor, where a loved ship 

lay, 
But it's "All hands for'rd!" and it's "Fore sheet; 

haul!" 
And it's "Stand by, me hearties I" when the sailors 

hear the call, 

"All hands, up anchor!" 

Oh, how bright the combers glisten and how clear the 
headlands are 

When we're homeward bound and standing out be- 
yond the harbor bar; 

How the scudding clouds, reflected, chase the white- 
caps up the sea, 

And the seagulls' noisy convoy seems to leave re- 
luctantly; 

[32] 



$ SEA LANES $ 

How the throbbing screws, in chorus, seem to sing 

the joy we feel, 
As they race and pound and rumble through the 

leagues beneath our keel; 
How the morning's routine lightens when we clear 

our holdin' ground; 
How we man the hoistin' tackle when we hear that 

welcome sound, 

"All hands, up anchor!" 

There are songs of home and country, there are hails 

that thrill and cheer ; 
There are customs and traditions which to every 

man are dear; 
There are memories which hold us in a spell of 

ecstasy ; 
There are thoughts which seem to bind us until others 

set us free; 
But the song with deepest meaning, in the world that 

seamen know. 
Brings them mingled joy and sorrow as it bids them 

come or go, 
For it's "All hands aft!" and it's "Main sheet, haul!" 
And it's "Stand by, me hearties!" when the sailors 

hear the call, 

"All hands, up anchor!" 



33] 



$ SEA LANES $ 



LOOKING SEAWARD 

I wonder what lies over there, 

Where sea and heavens meet; 

The place where golden sunsets flare, 

And lay their jewelled street 

Across the billows back to me. 

Until sometimes I think 

I'll take that path across the sea, 

And just peek o'er the brink 

Of that abyss which welcomes all 

Who cross its dim threshold. 

I wonder what strange haunts enthrall. 

Beyond that rim of gold. 

The countless hordes that sail away 

To lands for which they yearn — 

But whose kin watch for many a day 

In vain for their return. 

I wonder where the white ships go, 

That sail against the sky. 

I wonder if I'll ever know 

The mysteries that lie, 

Or romances of those who dwell 

Beyond that stretch of blue. 

I wonder if the tales they tell 

Of foreign lands are true; 

[34] 



$ SEA LANES $ 

If green fringed atolls dip their strands 

Beneath the turquoise seas, 

And palm strewn beaches cool their sands 

On every tropic breeze; 

If wondrous castle walls still ring 

With chivalrous tales of old, 

And over crumbling ruins cling 

The ivy and the mold; 

I wonder in my dreams, if I 

On some swift cloud set sail. 

With some low star to steer her by, 

My craft would reach that pale 

Whose endless wall the sun and stars 

Traverse in mystery. 

And through whose mist the glint of spars 

Oft comes and goes at sea. 



135] 



$ SEA LANES $ 



SEA LONGINGS 

I'd rather ride the billows high, 
Or buck the trades with empty hold, 
Than scale the peaks that touch the sky, 
Or tramp the woods of green and gold. 

I'd rather have my choice of ships 
And steer her by the palest star, 
Than bide the stares and painted lips 
That revel where the bright lights are. 

I'd rather feel the biting spray. 

Blown bridge- ward from a slaked jib-boom. 

Than hear the gossip of the day 

Within the stately drawing room. 

I'd rather see a sunset die 
At sea beneath the Southern Cross, 
Than turn the lamp of life too high 
And share the gamblers' nightly loss. 

I'd rather know the men on decks. 
Of shifting quid and stubble beard. 
Than all the city's pgJlid wrecks, 
Of riches born and gentry reared. 



[36] 



$ SEA LANES $ 



THE SUMMER STORM 

I leave the path by drift and dune 

And turn my face to the open sea; 

My heart's apace with the waves' dull tune, 

And something stirs in the soul of me. 

The white-caps change to oily swells ; 
In the offing ships are shortening sail; 
The warning cry of the gull foretells 
The coming of a summer gale. 

A cloud bank hangs where the sun went down ; 

The harbor Ughts are sifting through 

A dull gray mist which hides the town. 

The off-shore wind springs up a-new ; 

The harbor craft are taking lee ; 

The twihght turns to a darker gray — 

A silence falls on land and sea — 

Then rain clouds drive the mist away ; 

The angry seas are flung inland ; 
The pebbles threshed in the under-tow ; 
The breakers pound, and the shifting sand 
Is flecked with spume like driven snow. 
I steel myself to the stifi'ening breeze 
And briskly walk the clean washed shore. 

[37] 



$ SEA LANES $ 

I'm wet with spray from the lurching seas; 
My foot-steps grind on the hard beach floor; 

My chosen way is the tempest's way; 
My soul's attuned to the old gray sea ; 
I walk the beach on a stormy day — 
And nature sings in the heart of me. 



[38] 



$ SEA LANES $ 



SEA MUSING 

If I could have chosen the place of my birth, 

And fashioned my cradle near by, 
And built from the beauties of all the earth 

A bower in which to lie; 
My life would have stirred to the cool caress 

Of a salt spray kissing me ; 
My cradle have swung with the gentleness 

Of a summer breeze at sea. 

If I had the choice of a spot to dwell 

And foster the business of life, 
I'd flee from the marts where the pulses swell 

In the heat of the cities' strife, 
And follow the men who can stand to the wheel 

In the teeth of a blow at sea ; 
I'd brother the breed of the deep sea keel, 

And share their destiny. 

Should I have the choice of a place in the sun 

When old age comes to me. 
Where I may rest when my work is done, 

I'll wait beside the sea. 
If I had the choice of a place to die 

I'd choose some rocky shore, 
With a humble home, and friends near by, 

And the sound of the breakers' roar. 

[39] 



$ SEA LANES $ 



A FOG AT SEA 

A world oppressed by dearth of life and light; 
A universe of water and of mists 
Without sun to cheer the day, or stars the night; 
A sphere wherein no moving thing exists 
Except the rise and fall of some lone ship, 
Riding blindly through a dank eternity. 
With but the music of her measured dip 
To break the silence of a fog bound sea. 

The shrouded waves seem listless and depressed, 
Devoid of spectral hues which give them life. 
The low gray swells in sinuous unrest 
Rise, but to fall, the weaker for their strife. 

No living thing is seen upon the crests; 
The fmny tribes avoid the bleakness there. 
The sea birds seek their far Sargasso nests 
And shun the sadness of the humid air. 
The night descends, but not unlike the day. 
Save the bank of mist has changed to darker hue, 
And Stygian seas dissolving those of gray 
Proclaim a world where all is lost to view . 

A siren's blast intensifies each lull ; 

The moaning of a buoy sounds somewhere ; 

[40] 



$ SEA LANES $ 

Its plaintive tones too muffled and too dull 

To wake an echo on the heavy air. 

The search-light's steely gleams reach pale and cold, 

Where castle walls of fog their rays resist, 

And like the weapons hurled by knights of old, 

They shatter on the parapets of mist. 



[41 



SEA LANES $ 



SOUTH OF FIFTY -THREE 

The roughest jack who's sniffed a breeze 

Behind a channel fog; 
The toughest tar on seven seas 

That ever stood the "dog," 
Are gentlemen, and highly bred, 

Whatever manner born — 
Who reverence, alive or dead, 

The men who sailed the Horn! 



So skippers all, hear my appeal, 

And lay aft all your men; 
And bare your heads, and let us feel 

They're on the seas again — 
And choose what form of praise you may. 

But speak it from the heart — 
And say not less of them, than they 

Were masters of their art. 



[42] 



$ 



SEA LANES $ 



LOST AT SEA 

The mighty fleet in sombre gray, 
Majestic, silent, ploughed its way, 
When from a lookout's post somewhere 
Rang out upon the evening air 
The sea's most terrifying word ; 
"Man overboard"! — no sooner heard, 
Than down the cruisers' column went 
The word by life-buoy watches sent — 
Then bugles sounded! signals flashed! 
The life-boats, ready, hung unlashed. 
And crews were mustered at each boat - 
No sooner manned than put afloat — 
Then toward the life-buoy's lurid light 
A dozen life-boats cut the night; 
A dozen crews bent o'er a task 
No man aboard would dare to ask 
A respite from, or question when 
His oars would come to rest again. 

Aloft, the searchHghts' gleaming light 
Pierced the chasm of the night ; 
Among the crews no word was said; 
With hopeful vigilance, yet dread. 
They circled 'round the drifting hght; 

[43] 



$ SEA LANES $ 

The dark abyss of sea and night 

They searched, in vain, for any sign, 

Accidental, or by design. 

Which strugghng life might give to them, 

Or drifting dead might bring to them — 

A watchful hour passed, and then. 

Aloft the signals flashed again ; 

Bugles sounded boat recall; 

Then muster-roll, and that was all — 

The mighty fleet in sombre gray, 

Majestic, silent, went Its way. 



[44- 



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KINDRED SHIPS 

My soul is where the gray ships are; 

My truant heart is on the sea ; 

Hull-down beyond the harbor bar 

My white sailed thoughts are running free ; 

And if the winds blow foul or fair, 

Or white shoals glisten beneath their lee, 

I'm part of the life of things out there — 

And all the ships are akin to me. 

I know the strength of bolt and bar 
In the towering hulls of pulsing steel; 
The life that sparks from mast and spar. 
And the language of each vibrant keel. 
I know the feel of a beam-sea kick ; 
I've manned the yards to a frozen sheet; 
There's life for me in a steering trick, 
And I've laughed through the gale at the biting 
sleet. 

There's a deep sea roll in the legs of me; 
My ears are attuned to the breakers' roar; 
I'm akin to the ships, for I've served the sea — 
And my heart goes out to the world off-shore. 



45 



$ SEA LANES $ 

SONGS OF THE FO'C'S'LE 
SHIPMATES 

Don't y' sometimes get t' wishin' 

Fer th' good old days at sea, 
Can't y' hear th' bow waves s wishin', 
An' th' windwEird scuppers dishin' 

Seas she took so handsomely? 

Don't y' sometimes get t' thinkin' 
Of th' sights an' sounds aboard. 
Can't y' see th' signals blinkin', 
Can't y' hear th' mess gear clinkin' 
When th' coffee's bein' poured? 

Can't y' feel y' thoughts go boundin' 

Back t' some forgotten cruise, 
Can't y' hear th' leadsmen soundin', 
Can't y' hear th' beam seas poundin' 

An' th' rumblin' of th' screws? 

Don't y' seem t' jest be clingin' 

T' th' pals of long ago, 
Can't y' hear their voices ringin', 
Can't y' hear th' gang a-singin' 

All th' songs y' used t' know? 

[46] 



$ SEA LANES ^ 

Don't y' dream o' strange old places, 

That y' used t' visit then, 
See th' customs of odd races. 
An' look into shipmates' faces 

That y'll never meet again? 

Can y' keep th' thoughts from comin' 

When a ship gets under way. 
Or y' hear some lad a-hummin' 
Marchin' tunes, or hear th' drummin' 

An' th' band begins t' play? 

Can y' keep th' lump from sweUin' 

In y' throat at fleet parade. 
Don't y' feel like up an' yellin' 
When th' crews go by, an' tellin' 

Them y' kinda wish y'd stayed? 



147J 



$ SEA LANES $ 



THE OLD SCUTTLE-BUTT 

How dear to my heart are the scenes of my cruises, 

When fond recollection presents them to view. 

Not one of those dreams of the fo'c's'le loses 

The charm of each spot that my rookie days knew. 

The sound of the bugle at reveille routing 

The crew from the hammocks which hung neck an' 

neck; 
The din of the mess-gear ; the laughing and shouting 
Around the old scuttle-butt, there on the deck. 
The old wooden scuttle-butt; 
Iron bound scuttle-butt ; 
Cool, dripping scuttle-butt, on the gun-deck. 

The songs that the gang used to sing in the twilight, 
Their pipes all a-glowin' with yellow and red. 
Just lay in' on deck till the last bit o' sky hght 
Had gone, where the sun was hull-down and abed. 
The faces which peered above every tin dipper; 
The laughter that rang as we leaned at the brink ; 
The hails that were cheery, the jokes that were 

chipper. 
The fellowship there, which we quaffed with each 
drink 

From the old wooden scuttle-butt; 

Iron bound scuttle-butt; 
Cool, dripping scuttle-butt, on the gun-deck. 

[48] 



$ SEA LANES $ 



SHAKIN' DOWN 

I c'n see 'em at inspection, 
Like th' scene wuz yesterday; 
Awkward squads from ev'ry section 
All on deck in bright array. 
I c'n hear th' orders hummin'I 
Layin' out th' work t' do — 
Things on board wuz up an' comin'! 
Shakin' down th' rookie crew. 

Guardo sailors, an' Cob-dockers 
Barrack seamen by th' score; 
Fresh as their new-painted lockers, 
Greener than th' grass ashore 
When it come t' deep-sea sailin' I 
But b'fore th' cruise wuz through 
We wuz trim from peak to railin' — 
Shakin' down th' rookie crew. 

They wuz never where they should be; 
They wuz always loafin' aft; 
They wuz soft as lubbers could be 
When they come aboaid th' craft. 
They wuz white, an' kinda scrawny, 
But we took an' put 'em through, 
An' we made 'em hard an' brawny — 
Shakin' down th' rookie crew. 

[49] 



$ SEA LANES $ 

They'd come stragglin' out fer drillin', 
An' their gear wuz stiff an' new; 
They wuz victims of th' griUin' 
By th' old ones in th' crew, 
But they stood th' trainin' racket, 
An' they come back seamen too, 
When we sailed on our old packet — 
Shakin' down th' rookie crew. 



[50] 



SEA LANES $ 



ANCHOR WATCHES 

Ever stood th' twelve t' four 
Anchor watch, alone at night, 
When th' lights along th' shore 
Were jes' blinkin' out o' sight? 
Ever leaned there on th' railin' 
Jes' b'fore th' night wuz run. 
Stood an' watched th' stars a-palin' 
Till they dropped out one by one? 

Ever felt th' old craft swingin' 

Till th' chains 'ud grind an' slip? 

All y' toes an' fingers stingin' 

Where th' off-shore wind 'ud nip; 

Water gurglin', deep an' black, 

'Round th' bow, an' sorta drippin' 

An' a-sloshin' up an' back 

Where th' windward drains wuz dippin'. 

Watch cap pulled about yer ears, 

Pea coat buttoned snug an' tight; 

What strange thoughts an' hopes an' fears 

Used t' come on watch at night! 

Ever felt so blamed alone 

That it seemed like, fore an' aft, 

Every spar an' mast had grown 

Into some great spectre craft? 

[511 



$ SEA LANES $ 

Ever been so cold an' sleepy 
Y' could hardly walk yer post? 
Ever felt so scared an' creepy 
Every stanchion wuz a ghost, 
An' it seemed like ev'ry creakin' 
Of th' decks 'ud let y' through, 
An' that bosuns' mates wuz sneakin' 
In th' shadows watchin' you? 

Ever heard th' gulls a-screamin' 
At th' first gray peep o' dawn, 
Ever find y'self a-dreamin' 
Jes' b'fore eight bells had gone? 
Ever feel y' thoughts, now, throngin' 
Back t' things that happened then, 
Ever find y'self jes' longin' 
Fer an anchor watch again? 



[52] 



J SEA LANES $ 



BUMBOATS 

I've had a whirl at games of chance 

From Bombay 'round to Cork, 
I've sensed the ways of high finance 

Inhttleold New York; 
I know the w ay a bargain's made 

In Continental marts, 
Where crafty merchants vie for trade 

And practice cunning arts; 
But when I call them back to mind, 

I make a solemn vow — 
There's only one of all their kind 

Could sell me something now. 
There's only one that ever can 

Bring pleasant thoughts to me — 
And that's the little bumboatman, 

Who paddles out to sea; 
With his: "Gotta nice ripa banan, 

You buy da beeg orange? he sweet! 
Gotta cigarette; hka da fan? 

You lika da fine parakeet? " 

0, how we watched them coming out, 
At first they looked like specks, 

Just creeping down the bay, and 'bout 
The time we'd scrubbed down decks, 

f53l 



$ SEA LANES $ 

They'd be a-hovering 'round like gulls — 

Just waiting for "mess gear," 
The band would play, and in the lulls 

We'd call the bumboats near, 
And on the wonders in each boat 

We'd feast our hungry eyes. 
And as the httle craft would float, 

We'd bargain for a prize; 
Coral, shells, and blow-fish, dried, 

And fruit, and Guava jell. 
And nuts, and gum, and dried snake hide, 

And lace, and tortoise shell — 
Then 'twas "Gotta nice ripa banan, 

You buy da beeg orange? he sweet! 
Gotta cigarette; lika da fan? 

You lika da fine parakeet? " 

No, you may have your gilded shops, 

Their tinsel and their glare; 
The scent of sandalwood, and hops. 

And incense burning there; 
Your money-changers, lottery sharks, 

And sleek rug merchant's guise; 
Your hounding guides around the parks, 

And curb stock broker's lies — 
The bumboatmen are not the breed 

That squat in Europe's mart. 
They barter for their daily need — 

Deceit is not their art. 

[541 



SEA LANES $ 



If there's reward for toil and strife, 

When comes the final summing, 
In cheering up a sailor's life — 

Bumboaters have it coming; 
With their: "Gotta nice ripa banan, 

You buy da beeg orange? he sweet! 
Gotta cigarette; lika da fan? 

You lika da fine parakeet? " 



[55] 



$ SEA LANES $ 



HEROES 

Attention! Doughboys, Engineers, 
Aero, Tanks and Cavaliers; 
You guys with medals on your breasts, 
And Service stripes, throw out your chests! 
You done us proud, and you can tell 
The folks at home why war is hell. 
But Halt! You land fighters, enough! 
Don't corner all the hero stuff; 
The world knows how you scaled the top ; 
That nothing short of hell could stop 
Your tanks and planes and gas attacks. 
There's nothing that your valor lacks — 
But while we talk of fighting jobs, 
Have you guys heard about the Gobs? 
I mean the web-feet on our ships, 
A little bunch that sometimes slips 
Your minds, when you trench diggers run 
The gamut of the deeds you've done; 
You faced barrage and gas and shell. 
You done the job — and done it well. 
But could you lads have faced it all 
Without the ground on which to fall.^ 



[56] 



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THE MYSTERY 

I'm back on my old job again; the boss has raised 

my pay. 
I've donned "civilians," and I've put my uniform 

away. 
The folks are proud because their son has done his 

bit at sea, 
And everybody 'round the house is happy — except 

me. 
There's something I don't understand, about this 

coming home. 
For when I should be most content, my thoughts 

begin to roam. 
And when I light my cigarette, I seem to see the gang 
Up for'rd on the fo'c's'le, and hear the songs they 

sang. 
When I'm awakened by a voice, I think it's not for 

me, 
And I turn over for a nap, and wait for reveille. 
And 'round the steaming coffee every morning, now, 

there clings 
The memories of mess time, and all the joy it brings 
When a fellow comes off morning watch, with not a 

bite since four. 
And cold and drenched — and his rehef a half hour 

late, or more. 

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$ SEA LANES $ 

The wind that howls around the house, but brings 

dehght to me, 
For I can hear the creak of gear, and racing screws 

at sea. 
The sleet which cut my face today, as I walked into 

town, 
I fought, in fancy, on the bridge, where I paced up 

and down. 
There's something strange about the way I dream, 

now, on the job, 
And stranger still, that I should long to be once more, 

a gob. 



[58] 



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SEA LANES ^ 



UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS 

They're minute men of Uncle Sam; 
They never ask — nor give a damn — 
What kind o' job is theirs — nor where; 
Give 'em the order — and they are there I 
Quick on the trigger, and fight on the run — 
For every man is a son-of-a-gun — 
With Uncle Sam's Marines. 

They're hard-shelled cusses, and full o' grit; 
They're seasoned, and nervy, and battle -fit; 
Shoulder to shoulder, and hand to hand, 
They're first at sea and first to land; 
At home in the trenches, or with the fleet — 
And they'll take death before defeat — 
The United States Marines. 



[59] 



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THE HOLYSTONER 

Swashin' down th' quarter-deck, scuppers runnin' 

free, 
All th' gang in workin' white, happy as c'n be; 
Smell o' coffee comin' through from th' galley, near, 
G ettin' keener fer th' mess, ev'ry sound we hear ; 
Mornin' watch a-swappin' yarns that they got 

ashore, 
Ev'ry guy with somethin' new 'bout th' night before. 

Smokes a-workin' overtime, makins' hard t' find, 
Jeans rolled up aroun' our knees, blouses left b'liind ; 
Rus'lin' out th' cleanin' gear, draggin' aft th' hose, 
Sloshin' 'round t' feel th' sand oozin' 'tween our toes; 
Legs a tinglin' from th' spray, dancin' 'round with 

glee, 
Holystonin' with th' gang — that's th' watch fer me. 

Sun a-peepin' from th' sea out across th' bay. 
Fishermen a-makin' sail, gettin' under way; 
Gulls a-whinin' overhead, lookin' fer their chow, 
Bumboatmen a-comin' out, diiftin' 'round th' bow; 
Ship a-swingin' to th' tide, chains a-drawin' tight. 
Deck a-wash, th' sand an' water shinin' in th' fight; 

[GO] 



$ SEA LANES J 

Gang a-singin', fore an' aft, songs of ev'ry kind, 
Holystones a-slidin' — slidin' with a merry grind; 
Wadin' 'round in sand an' slush, slippin' on th' deck, 
Tiltin' up th' hose a bit to'ards a rookie's neck; 
Ev'rybody soppin' wet, hungry as c'n be, 
Holystonin' with th' gang — that's th' life fer me. 



[61] 



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THE MEAL PENNANT 

I've knocked about the world, an' had most every 

kind o' job, 
An' when we went t' fightin', I enlisted as a gob. 
I wasn't in no battles, an' I wear no hero bars; 
But I done my duty cheerful, with a thousand other 

tars. 
An' now the thing is over, an' I've hit the trail again, 
There's lots o' things looks difierent than I used t' 

see 'em, then; 
An' when I get t' dreamin' of the times I've had at 

sea, 
There's something' in the old routine looks better, 

now, t' me 
Than anything they hand me out, in this 'ere life 

ashore. 
An' that's the old meal pennant that was flyin' at 

the "fore". 
I never was partic'lar, fer Tm jest a workin' guy; 
An' I've hoboed fer a livin' in the days gone by. 
But since the war was over, I've been driftin' with 

th' tide. 
The jobs are hke they used t' be — but I ain't satis- 
fied; 
It's hustle this, an' rustle that, fer sixteen hours a 

day; 

[62] 



$ SEA LANES $ 

It's check me in, an' check me out, an' argue fer my 

pay; 
They call me on the carpet — then it's lock step, or 

rout — 
Fer if I have a word t' say, the boss he pipes me out. 
I've had my fill o' civil life — 'n' I ain't been out a 

year — 
I'm ready fer th' fo'c's'le, an' all th' shippin' gear. 
I'll holy-stone th' fightin' top before a howhn' gale; 
An' bosuns' mates can cuss me out an' I will never 

wail; 
The other guys can hit the beach, but none fer this 

one, when 
The old meal pennant's callin' — fer I'm goin' t' 

ship again. 



[63] 



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"JIMMY LEGS" 

"Jimmy Legs" your cruise is ended, 
You are stricken from the list; 
Soon your deeds will all be blended, 
Like a gray hull in the mist. 
With those old, but fond traditions, 
And odd customs of the sea, 
And the story of your missions 
Will be only history. 

Though a rough and ready master 
With an arm Hke tempered steel. 
And an eye that travelled faster 
Than the scud beneath our keel; 
Though the terror of the rookie. 
And the bane of the marines; 
Though the worry of the "cookie," 
And star actor in the scenes 

From the fo'c's'le to quarter 
Deck, from bridge to stoking hold — 
Leading shirkers to the slaughter. 
Meting punishment untold — 
Though your specialty was taming 
All the rookie pugilists. 
And you stopped our quiet gaming 
With a lecture — or your fists! 

[64] 



(J SEA LANES $ 

Though you gave us gentle warnings 

Till we wished that we could die; 

Though you stormed the berth deck, mornings, 

With a typhoon in your eye; 

Though you merited profaning, 

And deserved it when we'd curse — 

"Jimmy Legs" we'll miss your training, 

For we may get something worse! 



G5 



$ SEA LANES $ 



PAY DAY 

When I get t' thinkin' o' some o' th' ways 
0' life aboard ship in th' old cruisin' days, 
An' try t' pick out o' th' times we had then 
Th' one that I'd ruther see come back again, 
As I pictur' th' cruises, an' all their routine 
Goes by, like my mind wuz a real movie screen, 
I sez t' meself; "Y' can cuss all th' rest, 
But th' routine o' pay day's th' one ye liked best." 

There wuz days when th' rookies shook down fer a 

trip; 
An' days when we painted — (jes' 'fore we coaled 

ship) . 
There wuz days when we laid all our duds out in rows 
Fer inspection — (jes' 'fore we'd have "scrub an 

wash clothes"). 
There wuz field days, when all hands wuz up t' th' 

neck 
In dungarees, paint, an' th' gear 'round th' deck — 
(Sech corkin' good days 't be all mustered aft, 
Er turn to an' try out th' life savin' craft.) 

There wuz never a day when th' gang wasn't game, 
From reveille through t' when hammock time came; 
When a square-headed bosun 'ud cuss out th' crew, 

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SEA LANES $ 



There wuz never a guy on th' ship 'ud get blue. 
We reckoned th' cruises in months, an' a butt, 
An' bragged t' th' gang o' th' short time we'd got; 
We wuz happy-go-lucky, as long as we stayed — 
But th' days we liked best wuz th' days we got paid. 



[67] 



J SEA LANES $ 



SWIMMIN' CALL 

How th' boys 'ud dance an' shout 

When they heard th' swimmin' call! 
Tore th' anchor chains wuz out 

Y'could hear th' boat booms fall, 
Then we'd rustle gang-way gear, 

Both ears open, till we heard 
That old call we loved t' hear. 

Time th' bosun passed th' word. 
We'd be half undressed I guess — 

Didn't need no drill at all 
T'show up our speediness 

When we heaid th' swimmin' call. 

How that old berth deck 'ud ring 

Jest before a swimmin' bout! 
All th' gang 'ud whoop an' sing 

Till th' mate 'ud pipe us out. 
"Slap-stick," "Leap-frog," "Catch-as-can,' 

"Highland fling," an' "Touch-an'-go," 
'Round th' old berth deck we ran 

Till our eyes jes' seemed t' glow. 
Then th' tussle 'ud b'gin, 

An' we'd fight fer elbow room; 
Keen t' be th' first one in — 

"Be th' first guy off th' boom!" 

[68] 



$ SEA LANES J 

How th' salt spray 'd sting our faces, 

An' our hearts jest seemed t' thrill, 
As we warmed up t' th' races, 

Or we jockeyed in th' spill. 
How we dived, an' splashed, an' mingled 

In a free-for-all race in, 
Till our bodies they jest tingled. 

Where th' salt seas lashed our skin. 
0, th' swims I've had since then — 

Y'can bet I'd give 'em all 
Jest t' join th' gang again. 

An' t' hear their swimmin' call. 



[69] 



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"LAY AFT" 

'Member how you'd get t' diggin' 
Into some mean job b'low; 
Breakin' out th' coalin' riggin', 
Cleanin' up a dynamo, 
Pumpin' bilges er repairin' 
Engine room er steerin' gears? 
An' y' somehow wasn't carin' 
Fer th' paint an' oily smears 
On y' face an' dungarees, 
An' th' grease wuz thick an' slimy 
On y' elbows an' y' knees, 
An' y' felt s' black an' grimy 
That th' outfit y' wuz wearin' 
'Ud disgrace a coalin' craft — 
Then you'd leave th' job jes' swearin' 
'Cause y' heard th' call; "Lay Aft." 

'Member how you'd get s' tired 
Y' could hardly work y' feet. 
An' y' felt like you wuz mired 
In th' job b'fore retreat. 
An' y' had t' almost crawl 
Back t' get cleaned up a bit, 
An' y' thought th' only call 
That 'ud ever make y' fit, 

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$ SEA LANES $ 

Would be when they sounded taps, 
An' y' felt like turnin' in 
Fer a "forty-eight" o' naps — 
'Member how you'd kind o' grin, 
An' y' heart 'ud give a bound, 
When o' sudden through th' craft 
Rang th' old fmihar sound; 
"All you shore leave men lay aft." 



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"CHIPS" 

When y' look about an' try to 
Pick a shipmate fer th' cruise, 
That'll be a friend t' tie to 
When y' kinda get th' blues; 
When y' want a mate that's ready 
With a friendship that's alive, 
All his dealin's square an' steady. 
An' he don't want six fer five; 
When y' want an open hearted 
Mate — that hasn't got a spleen — 
An' y' know that what he's started 
Will be sure t' come through clean; 
When y' want a pal that's livin' 
With a good word on his lips, 
An'll take less than he's givin' — 
Then th' guy y' want is "CHIPSI" 

Can't y' almost see th' boys 

'Round th' bench where old "Chips" stood, 

Don't y' recollect th' toys 

That he'd make o' bits o' wood? 

Don't y' recollect him mendin' 

Ever'thing, from broken locks 

To a deck swab, or his sendin' 

You a fancy ditty box? 

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$ SEA LANES $ 



When y' mind is sorta castin' 
'Mong th' thoughts of long ago, 
Fer a mem'ry that is lastin' 
Of th' mates y' used t' know, 
Y' will find him overhaulin' 
All th' others on th' ships — 
An' y' mind has gone a-trawlin' 
If y' don't remember "CHIPS". 



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$ SEA LANES J 



THE SEA LAWYER 

Learned seers of ancient ages ; 
Oracles or wisest sages — 
Our sea lawyer beats them all. 
From "All Hands" to hammock call, 
Always ready for debate, 
Captain, cook or bosun's mate 
Has no chance when he begins ; 
In the game of talk —he wins! 
Talks long after lights are out, 
Don't need much to talk about. 
Talks himself right out of jobs; 
Pesters all his fellow gobs; 
Argued with the Doc, they say. 
Which side his appendix lay. 
Talks the whole berth deck to sleep, 
Arguing on how to keep 
Politicians free from graft. 
Or marines from loafing aft; 
How to make a berth deck cook; 
Run a farm, or write a book; 
Knows the charts of every sea; 
Man or beast or bird or tree; 
Things that walk or swim or crawl — 
Our sea lawyer knows them all. 

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"MAIL, HO!" 

All th* sounds I've heard at sea 
Can't compare with one for me, 
It's got all th' others beat 
Clean from "All Hands" to "Retreat;" 
Gets me — riggin', hull an' all, 
When I hear th' bosun call: 

"Mail, Ho!" 

When th' tender heaves in sight, 
Any time o' day or night; 
RoUin' in a rough sea-way, 
Or she's steaming' up th' bay. 
Never was a craft a-float 
Looked s'good as that mail boat. 
Brightest days of any cruise 
Are th' days we get th' news, 
Makes no odds t'us which way 
We are bound on letter day; 
Always have a happy crew 
On th' day th' mail is due. 
'Round th' berth deck then, is where 
Most of us hang out, an' there 
We jest yell, an' dance ai'ound 
Showin' treasures we have found ; 
Holdin' some new picture high; 
Tellin' secrets on th' sly; 

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$ SEA LANES $ 

Sharin' every prize we get; 
Candy, book or cigarette. 
Each guy happy with some thought 
That a welcome letter brought. 
Folks don't seem so far away 
When we've had a letter day. 
We c'n laugh at distance then, 
When we've heard from home again. 
Lonesome, homesick, sad or weary, 
One thing always makes us cheery — 

"Mail, Ho!" 



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THE OLD DITTY BOX 

Old and battered now, it rests 

With the spinning wheel and chests, 

In the solitude and gloom 

Of the dusty attic room. 

Tied around with cotton Hne; 

Carved with names in odd design; 

Hinges broken; lid askew; 

Warped and cracked — but always new I 

Dear to me despite its knocks — 

Precious durned old ditty box. 

When I steal away up stairs, 
'Mong the beds and broken chairs, 
And I loosen that old lid, 
I'm a second Captain Kidd 
Hunting for his buried gold — 
But no hiding place could hold 
Treasures like the ones I find. 
And the thoughts they bring to mind; 
Dreams of ships and ports and docks — 
All from that old ditty box. 

When I take the treasures out, 
And begin to think about 
Cruising days of long ago, 

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Memories crowd upon me so, 

I just wish that every lad 

Could have all the fun I've had, 

And that they could have, hke me, 

Golden hours of memory. 

When their thoughts, like sheep in flocks, 

Would come from a ditty box. 



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$ SEA LANES $ 



A BALLAD OF THE OLD NAVY 

The sea's the place for sailormen in fair or stormy 

weather ; 
'Round the world and back again they're all good 

mates together. 

We went ashore on pay day night, Bill Dykes the 

mate, an' me; 
We cruised about till we got tight an' then went on a 

spree. 
We veered an' hauled an' tacked an' beat, an' shifted 

course some more, 
Till we fetched up on Bleecker street, an' steered fer 

Jersy shore — 
An' we wuz ridin' even keel, consid'rin' where we'd 

been, 
Till a pair o' cops put up a deal an' tried t' run us in. 
An' Bill, he sez: " 'Turn To' has gone, I think I heard 

'er blow". 
An' he winked at me, an' I wuz on, an' then he sez: 

"Les'go"! 



So Bill, he took th' biggest one, an' 'course I took 

th' other. 
An' s'help me, when th' job wuz done y' couldn't tell 

one from t'other. 

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Th' port side light o' one wuz green, an' th' starb'ai'd 

showin' red, 
An t'other wuz bleedin' in b'tween, an' I thought he 

wuz dead, 
Fer I downed him cold in th' mornin' watch with his 

wood b'layin' pin; 
An' th' top uv his head wuz an awful splotch an' his 

jaw wuz busted in. 
'N then Bill, he sez: "Tis well b'low", an' he cast his 

weather eye 
Aroun' th' street, an' he sez: "Les' go, an' leave the' 

lubbers die." 

Two sailors roUing down the dock, and making heavy 

weather, 
A-hoisted in with tackle and block, and into the brig 

together. 



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$ SEA LANES $ 



RED LEAD 

You may visit studios 
In New York or gay Paree; 
Watch the famous models pose; 
Study scenes of land or sea. 
You may sing the cubist's praises, 
Or a portrait's curving hp — 
But for art with all its phases, 
Watch a deck crew painting ship. 

You will never fmd them staUing 
When the paint begins to pour. 
Artisans of every caUing; 
Rookies fresh from haunts ashore 
Hustle overside, and swinging 
On their creaking stages high, 
Work to tunes the gang is singing. 
Till they make the red lead fly. 

Hieroglyphics and odd creatm^es; 
Birds and faces, curves and hues; 
Ancient ait with all its features; 
Modern art in strange designs 
Grace the old hull, till the laughter 
Gives the bosun's mate a tip — 
And he finds, a moment after, 
All hands busy — painting ship. 

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SEA LANES $ 



Dungarees and blouses spattered; 
Features standing in relief, 
Where the spots of paint are scattered, 
Like a decked Apache chief; 
Gaunt and silent, wan and bleary, 
Daubed and smeared from head to feet 
Come the artists, cramped and weary. 
When the bugle blows retreat. 

There are painters far more clever 

Than these artists of the sea, 

But the scrawls they make will ever 

Cling around my memory. 

And their laughter and their yelling, 

And the steady slap and dip 

Of their brushes, will be telling 

How the old gang painted ship. 



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THE ACE 

The all-resplendent, independent, 

Dare-devil Ace. 
The never-halted, most exalted 

Warrior of his race. 
A nerveless, swerveless, fighting flyer, 
Soaring, dipping through hell-fire; 
Double-daring, never caring 

For the time or place. 

The unremitting, never quitting 

Military Ace. 
Ever meeting, always greeting 

Danger, face to face. 
Living, giving all, each day; 
Bombing, scouting on his way; 
Hope enthralhng, till God's calling. 

Summons home the Ace. 



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SEA LANES $ 



THE GALLEY 

Though time may dim each cherished scene 

That I once knew at sea, 
And dull each sense which once was keen, 

I hope there'll sometimes be 
A vision come before my eyes 

Until my senses rally, 
And catch the smells that used to rise 

Above the old ship's galley. 

Could fairer feast be set for kings 

Than used to greet our eyes? 
The range heaped high with luscious things ; 

The biscuits and the pies; 
The soup in caldrons steaming hot; 

The golden hot cakes flying ; 
The cofi'ee bubbling in the pot; 

The eggs and bacon frying! 

Let others dine in big hotels, 

But give me galley fare! 
I've paid the price for fancy smells, 

And garnished dishes rare; 
I've tasted many a costly brew — 

But none of them can tally 
With some I've eaten with the crew, 

From out the old ship's galley. 

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SEA LANES $ 



I've banqueted and dined in state 

In wealthy restaurants; 
I've waited long and feasted late 

In swell bohemian haunts — 
But I'd have gladly missed them all 

To line up in the alley 
With our old gang, and hear mess call, 

Outside the old ship's galley. 



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THE SHIP'S COOK 

The gilded thrones of kings may pass; 

The magistrate's judicial hall, 

The Sultan's court of tinkling brass — 

They all may go beyond recall, 

But there's one monarch that will stay, 

And in his sacred, royal nook 

Endure all time, and hold full sway — 

And that's his highness — our ship's cook. 

From out his spacious, steel-bound cage 

Come forth his edicts and commands — 

No other ruler of the age 

Could issue more obscure demands; 

No king could closer guard his gate 

Against assassin, thief or crook, 

Or be a sterner potentate 

Than our respected — galley cook. 

But, though he be of royalty. 

We know the cook will be our friend — 

For what would morning watches be 

Without his hand-out at the end? 

A trick out on the target raft; 

A mid-watch on the old mud hook; 

A cold, wet field day, fore and aft — 

And we bless, then — the old king cook. 

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Who hasn't made a quiet trip 
To cookie's throne room late at night, 
When Hghts were out aboard the ship, 
To get from him some tempting bite? 
What would the life up for'rd be — 
How different things at sea would look 
If that black coffee weren't so free 
From our old pal — the galley cook. 

What joy we'd lose at reveille. 
If we should fail to hear the sound 
Of mess gear dropping, or to see 
The heaping dishes passed around — 
How dull the routine of the day, 
If, from that guarded, regal nook. 
No golden morsels came our way; 
We'd miss his majesty — the cook. 



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$ SEA LANES $ 



JACK 0' THE DUST 

Like a pirate's den of old 
With its chests of hoarded gold, 
Or the famed Aladdin's cave, 
There's a realm beneath the wave 
Where a lone sea-going man, 
Like a hermit of his clan, 
Feasts upon his hidden treasure; 
Finds his work, and seeks his pleasure. 
Safe from wind and wave and cold. 
In the dusty cargo hold. 

Walled about by tiers and stacks 
Of his wealth, piled high in sacks; 
Tons and tons of precious freight 
Stowed in box and bag and crate, 
Dried fruit, candy, nuts and rice. 
With the wafted scent of spice. 
And of countless sweets untold, 
Floating through the laden hold. 
Neither drill nor bugle call 
Seems to worry him at all; 
In the work-a~day routine 
'Round the decks, he's never seen — 
But he's always within reach 
When it's time to hit the beach! 

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$ SEA LANES $ 

Though the recluse of the crew, 
Known among a chosen few, 
We shall hear his praises sung 
Till the last ship's csu'go's swung — 
When we think of happy nights, 
Under shedding cargo Ughts, 
In his cozy den below, 
Where we heard the soft and low 
Muffled music of the screws; 
Where we sat to win or lose 
In a quiet game, or shared 
Simple feasts our host prepared. 



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THE BLUEJACKET 

Beneath his jaunty flat-topped hat, 
His head held high; his close-cropped hair 
With its clean outline, and under that 
The glowing bronze of his neck, laid bare 
From the white starred collar of navy blue, 
To his full brown throat, and square-cut jaw. 
His features stand out clear and true; 
His profile, sharp as a keen-edged saw, 
Against his weathered coat of tan. 
His step is firm, with measured length; 
His brawny chest, and the ample span 
Of his shoulders tell of harbored strength. 
His muscles hard as a Turk's-head knot; 
His sinews tense like cords of steel; 
His piercing glance may blaze white hot — 
Or shine with a light that a friend can feel. 

His mirth is fresh as the open sea, 

Which conjures all his hopes and fears; 

Which seems to mark his destiny, 

And measure out his laughs and tears. 

He takes his fun and pays the price; 

His tastes are plain and his wants are few; 

He uses words not over nice — 

But his thoughts are clean, and his deeds are true. 

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SEA LANES $ 



Tattooed and calloused; perhaps profane, 
And a soldier of fortune now and then; 
Steadfast as the links of an anchor chain — 
A rough and ready man for men; 
He'll bide the night with a poker hand — 
Or plunge to his death to save a life. 
At sea, in air; on ship or land. 
He'll keep his post, with perils rife. 
In battle, fierce as a wounded buck, 
He plays the game to the ordered end — 
Or true to a mate who's lost his luck, 
He'll stake his life to help a friend. 



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